


Save Me from the Dark

by cattyk8



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Clark Kent, But Only in Chapters 2 Through 7 (Of 9), But in really broad strokes, Dead Bruce Wayne, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Bruce Wayne, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, LITERALLY, Lazarus Pit, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Mild Smut, References to Injustice: Gods Among Us, Shameless Round Robin of POVs, So much angst, Temporary Character Death, The Author Wants To Know Where Her Fluff and Humor have Gone, Top Bruce Wayne, because, smut at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8
Summary: Batman had hoped this day would never come.But he’s prepared for it, of course. He would not be who he is if he hadn’t. He’s seen entire worlds laid waste by a corrupted Justice League, a corruptedSuperman, and he decided long ago that it would not happen to this one.And he has always known it would be up to him to stop it.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent & Lois Lane, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Diana (Wonder Woman) & Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Lois Lane & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 187
Kudos: 320
Collections: At War. In Love





	1. Bruce

**Author's Note:**

> If you come here with a familiarity with most of my other fics, I’ll tell you now, this one’s weird (and hurts a lot). I don’t even know why I wrote it. People I have whined at about this may recognize it as The Fic Formerly Known as “Shitfic.” 
> 
> I haven’t even seen or played _Injustice: Gods Among Us_ , and I somehow made the mistake of thinking that I’d write a scene that had been bugging me about multiverse-hopping Batman, and that would be that.
> 
> Now this is nine chapters long (I wasn’t gonna post it if it never got finished because I would’ve hated not to end it happy) and I’m wondering where my fluffy writey self has gone. Please bear with me, I know not what I do. Every chapter of this was horrid to write, and I think I’m going back to the world of fluffy/cracky Brucie fiction as soon as I get done posting this.

Batman had hoped this day would never come. 

But he’s prepared for it, of course. He would not be who he is if he hadn’t. He’s seen entire worlds laid waste by a corrupted Justice League, a corrupted _Superman_ , and he decided long ago that it would _not_ happen to this one.

And he has always known it would be up to him to stop it.

Of the known triggers for Superman turning his rage upon the world, his analyses had identified the circumstances that birthed what the JL had taken to calling the Injustice universe as the most likely to play out in this one. 

There, Superman had been driven mad by fear toxin the Joker had somehow managed to cobble together with Kryptonite gas and had killed his wife and their unborn child. In doing so, he’d activated a nuclear bomb set to trigger by the absence of her heartbeat, and this had resulted in the complete destruction of Metropolis.

In other universes, it is caused by the death of a founding member of the Justice League as a direct result of a plot by Lex Luthor. 

In other universes, it never happens at all. In half of the ones they’ve discovered, Batman’s counterpart and Superman’s are a couple, in secret or publicly. These seem to be the most stable universes, where the Justice League has done the most good.

Batman can admit to himself, in his most selfish moments, that he had hoped to push their own fate into this pattern, though somehow he’d known it would never happen. 

He’d not begrudged Clark his joy in marrying Lois, had accepted immediately when asked to be best man. In fact, he had been genuinely happy at Clark’s own happiness, even as something tight had lodged in his chest on the day of the wedding, when he had stood by his best friend as the bride-to-be had walked down the aisle. And he had planned ruthlessly to keep her safe—from her own husband, if need be.

He had been honored beyond words to be asked to stand as godfather to their child, and only he and Alfred would know that he drew up ever more contingencies as the due date had approached. 

When the boy had been born, he’d held his godson in his arms and promised to keep him safe. He’d bought the Kents a house (“Because no godson of mine is going to be raised in a fourth-floor apartment”) in a nice Metropolis suburb, placing it under Jon’s name so Clark and Lois couldn’t do anything stupid like try to give it back, and he’d easily waved away their protests with a signature Brucie air. Only he, Alfred, and Clark (damn those super eyes and ears anyway) know that house is built more securely than the Federal Reserve.

When Clark and Lois started having problems shortly after Jon’s second birthday, he had stood as friend to them both, hurt for them both even as they hurt each other. And if some small, dark corner of his heart had thought _maybe_ when Lois had confessed she was having a lawyer draw up divorce papers, he’d stomped on the thought with all the willpower the Bat could bring to bear.

But Batman always has a plan, and Lois Lane is still the mother of Superman’s child. And even if Clark isn’t _in_ love with her anymore (though Bruce has yet to be firmly convinced of this), he nevertheless still loves her in some capacity.

So when there are whispers of a Joker-Luthor team up and Lois goes missing, Bruce springs into action. With the needs of the many in mind, though it squeezes at his heart and steals his breath, he locates and then disarms the nuke Joker has planted in the basement of the Daily Planet building. 

Then, because it’s the Joker, and there’s never just _one_ bomb, he lets himself breathe just a little when his boys, his Robins, report that they’ve disarmed more bombs all around the city. When Robin and Batgirl report that they’ve secured the package he’s identified as their number one priority.

Bruce is already going for priority number two by the time Alfred, who is manning comms, reports the all-clear. 

“Everybody get out of the city,” he says, because there is still Superman to contend with, and if this goes badly, then his boys do not need to be here.

“B, no, we’re—”

“I mean it. Everyone back to the cave. Now.” He hardens his voice into something like steel, knowing this is the only tone that his children will brook no argument with. If he survives this, he will make it up to them. Let them get away with their rooftop acrobatics for one night. Have one of Dick’s movie marathon weekends. Make even Jason come, for the popcorn if not the company.

But that is later.

Grumbling, the Robins retreat, and that is another breath, another relief. Batman takes out the Joker’s thugs, breaks into the room where Lois Lane is being held while the Joker taunts Clark. Gently, so gently, he eases the gag from her mouth, unties her.

“You’re all right,” he assures her, as much as himself. “You’re okay. Lois.”

She nods. “I’m okay,” she whispers. “Clark—”

“I know. I’ve got it.”

“But the Joker—”

“I’m handling it.” Then he shocks her—he knows it by the way those purple eyes widen—by taking the cowl off. He takes off his own comm and puts it in her ear. “Go,” he tells her. “If Clark loses it, and I’m compromised, tell Alfred it’s Injustice Protocol One-Three-Seven. Say it back to me now.”

“Injustice Protocol One-Three-Seven,” Lois says obediently. “Br—”

“I’m going to stop him,” Batman says, tugging the cowl back on. “Metropolis will be safe, and you and Jon too. I promise.”

“I believe you. Bruce—”

“There’s no time. Go now. Jon is with Cass and Damian, and they’ll have rendezvoused with the rest by now. Get safe. Go to Alfred if you can.”

“I’m going.” But she doesn’t. Instead she stills, looks him right in the eye. Or would, if he didn’t have his lenses activated. “Keep safe, okay? He needs you. Your kids need you. The _world_ needs you.”

“I won’t take any unnecessary risks.” He knows she knows better than to ask that he avoid the necessary ones.

Another moment, then she nods. Flees. A third breath, relief.

He doesn’t say out loud what he already knows: that the world might need Batman, but it needs Superman _more_.

He’s already had that argument with Diana, and in the end, she’d been forced to support his contingency plans.

“Alfred,” he says slowly, knowing the camera in the cowl is still transmitting even if without his comm, it’s a one-way transmission, “we are not yet at One-Three-Seven. I am going to initiate protocol Zero-Two-Nine.”

He pulls out a syringe, then, after a half-moment’s hesitation, the Kryptonite ring Clark gave him all those years ago. For precisely this purpose.

He turns toward where he can hear Clark’s ringing tones, that kind authority, as he addresses the Joker, whose own tones run up and down the scales as per usual. He breaks out into a dead run. For a moment, he thinks he’ll make it, that he’ll save Clark before the Joker can dose him.

But Bruce has never had that kind of luck.

“Time to have some fun, Superman,” the Joker says, then cackles as there’s a muted boom. 

Closer now, he can hear Clark coughing. “Wha—?”

“Guess that’s my cue to exit, stage left!”

The Joker blows right past him as he approaches, and he’s sure the clown has some line or other to spit his way, but Batman ignores him in favor of the more immediate danger. Clark—

Is screaming, his palms pressed to his eyes like it’s some defense against the horrors he’s seeing behind those lids.

“Superman!” he calls.

No response.

“Superman!” he tries again. By this time he’s right in front of Clark. So, quieter, he says, “Clark, listen to me. It’s not real. Clark!”

But Clark is wailing. “No, no, no…”

Bruce takes a breath, then moves to subdue so he can dose the other man with antitoxin. “Kal-El.”

And those hands fall away. Those eyes open, and they are shining red. “Zod,” Clark spits out, staring at Bruce, mouth twisted into a hateful sneer. “I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.”

Then there’s a hand at Bruce’s chest, and he is flying. He crashes to the ground, and he knows several ribs have been broken, if not crushed. He can barely get a breath. Still, he forces himself to inhale painfully as red boots appear in his line of sight. 

“Clark, it’s not real,” he chokes out, just before a large granite-hard hand circles his throat and crushes his larynx. He feels another hand grasp his, wrench the Kryptonite ring off.

“You don’t fool me, Zod, and I will end you before I let you get to my family, my friends.”

Then they are flying up, and up, and Bruce finds himself clawing helplessly at the hand at his throat, growing dizzier with every moment. Clark is still yelling at him, but suddenly Bruce’s vision is awash in gold.

“Kal-El, listen to my voice. See beyond your fears to what is true.”

Diana. Thank God. Someone must have called her.

“Kal-El, the Lasso of Hestia frees you!”

Bruce is burning and freezing, all at the same time. But there is utter silence as Superman stops screaming. 

“B-Bruce?”

He doesn’t feel the hand crushing his throat anymore. But he also doesn’t feel much of anything else, either.

This could be a problem.

He raises his hand, not to his throat, but to his temple. Where the control for the cowl cam is. His family doesn’t need to see this.

But his fingers are clumsy. Unable to work the mechanism.

“Bruce?”

The last thing he sees are sapphire eyes staring at him in shock and horror. 

“ _Bruce!_ ”

“Kal, give him to me—”

“No! Bruce, stay with me, okay? We’ll get help—”

It’s fine. It’s done. Superman’s saved.

Numb as he is, Bruce thinks they are descending. Or maybe it’s just him, sinking into oblivion. 

Someone is saying his name, over and over again, from a very long distance away.

 _It’s okay_ , he wants to say to Clark, but he hasn’t the breath, and his throat won’t work.

He’s in Clark’s arms, and Clark isn’t letting him go. Is holding him tight. It’s more than he hoped for, in death.

“Bruce, _please_ —”

He floats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and damnations in equal part to [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdt) and [serephent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent), who are awesome betas but should probably tell me no and also HELL NO more often. Instead of enabling me. So if you read this and are like “Why would you even do this?” Blame them because I was like “oh shit I did something bad” and they were like “keep doing it!”
> 
> For other issues, though, I am happy to hog the blame. Any mistakes are mine because after I finished writing this I wanted it off my plate as fast as possible and so decided to give it only a cursory grammar and spelling check.


	2. Diana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world goes mad in an instant, but it takes hours, days to see the scope of it.

The world goes mad in an instant, but it takes hours, days to see the scope of it.

The series of photos that’s on every front page in the world the next day is titled “Modern Pietà.” 

The photographer credited is James Olson, but Jimmy will tell Lois later he doesn’t even remember holding his camera, much less taking the shots, as he stood in shock at the sight on the roof of the Daily Planet that day. Diana hears from Lois that he’s refused any payment for the work, considers it blood money.

The photos show a clearly brokenhearted Superman, tears flowing freely down his face, expression ravaged, as he holds the lifeless body of Batman.

In earlier shots, Wonder Woman is kneeling in supplication, her back to the camera, her glowing rope still around the two men as if to attest to the shocked audience that what they are seeing is truth. In other shots, she is standing away, one hand to her ear as she calls for backup, her grief as evident on her face as on Superman’s.

The final shots show the Justice League descending, shoulders rigid, faces grave. One of the Green Lanterns ushers the onlookers away. He tells Perry White not to publish the photos until they have informed the family. The grizzled editor blusters a bit, but quickly tells the Lantern he will hold it until the evening edition of the paper. 

He doesn’t even ask for an exclusive.

When everyone is gone, Diana approaches Superman. 

“Kal-El,” she says, as gently as she can.

He flinches.

“Clark,” she corrects herself. “Clark, we need to check him.”

“He’s gone,” Clark whispers. “He’s… quiet. I… I… God, Diana. I can’t hear his heart. I’m holding him in my arms and I can’t hear his heart.”

Diana turns to J’onn J’onzz, and she sees his eyes have gone bright red, indicating he is using his powers. Then his eyes darken, and he bows his head. She feels her heart wrench in her chest.

There’s the slightest creak of kevlar as Clark hugs Bruce’s body to him tighter. “Did I—” His whisper is harsh, and he has to try again before he can speak. “Did I do this?”

The moment of silence in which nobody in the League can breathe seems as much affirmation as a shouted word. But Diana is a goddess whose weapon is truth. “You were not yourself,” she says firmly, and lays a hand on his shoulder.

But he flinches away, and draws Bruce even closer, like a child. Or a lover.

“Clark,” she says, almost pleading. “We must take him home. He would not like to be so exposed like this, in the light of day.”

“No,” he says slowly, as if coming out of a daze. “No, I’m taking him to the Fortress. I’ll get him to the medbay there, and heal his wounds.”

“Superman,” J’onn says, and there is a cautious note in his voice, “Batman is—”

“No!” 

Everyone steps back as Clark’s eyes blaze red. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as the red fades into blue once more. “No,” he says again. “He’ll be fine. I’ll just fix him up. So Diana, if you could just get this off me…”

She’s shocked to see the lasso is still around him, and yet he has not realized the truth even with its influence. _He_ cannot _realize the truth_ , a part of her mind whispers.

“She cannot. Not until we have administered a dose of antitoxin and confirmed it no longer affects you,” J’onn says.

But Superman shakes his head, his own eyes reddening. “No! There’s no time! Get this off.”

“Batman left strict instructions,” J’onn says calmly, and invoking the name of the fallen seems all that’s needed for the Kryptonian to subside. J’onn, gods bless him, makes no further comment and immediately takes out one of the kryptonite-tipped syringes Batman had equipped the Watchtower infirmary with when they’d first launched the Justice League.

Diana shies away from the thought that they would have to look to another for these small details from now on.

Superman is still as J’onn injects the antidote to the fear toxin into his arm. After a minute or two, the Martian nods at Diana, and she removes the lasso from around Superman and Batman. As she does, she cannot help cupping one trembling hand gently over the cowl.

But Clark gives a subvocal growl and pulls Bruce from her hold. He stands, Bruce still in his arms, and seems ready to launch himself into the sky. She braces herself to stop him, and she sees the Lanterns and Shayera do the same. 

Just then a dark shape descends from the cloud cover as stealth technology is shut down to reveal the Batwing. The door slides down to reveal the Bat Family and…. Lois Lane?

Nightwing comes forward, arms outstretched. “Give him to me, Superman.” There is command seldom heard in the former Robin’s voice, a harshness to that last word she has never heard directed at the Man of Steel.

She remembers Dick has always been a Superman fan, had chattered excitedly for weeks, months, after first meeting his hero.

Clark shakes his head. “I’m taking him to the Fortress. He’ll get better there. I’ll—”

“You’ll do no such thing, _alien_.” 

Robin, a scowl on his face so like his father’s it makes Diana’s heart clench, strides forward. He thrusts a fist toward Superman, a sickly green glow emanating through his gloved fingers, and Diana watches as the blood drains from Clark’s face.

Superman falls to his knees as the littlest Robin comes ever closer, but he does not let go of his precious cargo. 

“Please, Damian,” Clark whispers.

“You have done more than enough. We are taking Father _home_.”

A broad-shouldered figure strides past Diana, and she is shocked to see Red Hood—Jason—pass her unacknowledged. “What the brat said,” he growls, and snatches Bruce’s body from Clark’s weakened arms. He turns and strides back toward the waiting jet, Batgirl and Red Robin flanking him. 

“Come, Robin,” Nightwing says, and moves to follow his siblings.

Robin drops the chunk of kryptonite on the roof. “There is more where that came from,” he says venomously, before turning to go with his family.

Despite the agony the green rock must have him in, Clark struggles to his feet, takes a step toward the plane. 

Lois, silent until now, hands little baby Jon to the Flash, then takes Clark’s arm and forces him back. “Let them take him home, Clark,” she says, and Diana sees that she is crying.

It serves as just enough distraction that the Batwing is able to take off and, activating stealth mode again, merge with the clouds as it heads toward Gotham.

Clark turns toward his ex-wife. His mouth twists into a sneer that seems alien on his face, usually so affable and kind. Diana’s breath strangles in her throat at the sight of it. Behind her, she hears someone, more than one someone, choke on a gasp.

“This happened because he was saving you,” Clark spits at the woman he once called his world.

She slaps him, a solid smack that seems to resound over the rooftops of the city.

“This happened,” Lois says, her voice filled with rage and pity, her face wet as Diana’s own, “he _died_ , because he was saving _you_ , asshole.”

Clark’s face turns to granite, but he says nothing as Lois takes her son back into her arms, walks to the door, and heads downstairs. 

The rooftop is silent.

Diana feels the weight of her teammates’ expectations fall upon her. She, Clark, and Bruce had often been referred to as the Trinity. Wonder Woman, Superman, and Batman. But Batman’s body is headed home one last time. And Superman is… broken.

Now they look to her.

“Superman—”

“I could have saved him.” She’s never heard Clark sound like this. Like he’s the one who died.

“Kal-El—”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

“Clark,” she amends.

“No. I’m going. Don’t call me. Even if—” he pauses “—even if the world is ending. Just. Don’t.”

And he flies away, leaving the broken pieces of the League behind him.


	3. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark can circumnavigate the globe in a matter of minutes, but there is nowhere he can go to escape this.

Clark can circumnavigate the globe in a matter of minutes, but there is nowhere he can go to escape this.

Escape what he’s done.

Escape himself.

He can’t go to Gotham. Gotham is Bruce. And Bruce…

He can’t think of Bruce right now, not without imploding. He’d throw himself into the sun if that would do anything but jack up his powers. Powers that can kill. Powers that _have_ killed.

He can’t go to Smallville. How can he, when his Ma is more than likely to ask him how Bruce is doing? The woman had all but adopted his friend as a second son almost from the moment she’d met him, fussing over a bemused Bruce when he’d first visited with his arm in a sling and his face black and blue from a fight with the Joker.

Clark’s vision darkens at the thought of the Joker. He should have wiped him out of existence earlier. Bruce should have—

No. Bruce wouldn’t have. That was his thing, right? Never kill. It had been Clark’s thing too. Until today. Until he’d taken a life that had been dedicated to protection, and justice and compassion. And love.

Because Bruce had loved Clark.

Clark had known it, in that last moment before Bruce’s eyes had closed—forever. He’d seen the forgiveness, the understanding, the _comfort_ in the man’s gaze. Probably would’ve heard it if Bruce had been able to speak at that moment.

It was knowledge come too late.

And Clark hadn’t deserved it. _Doesn’t_ deserve it.

After all, it was _his_ strength that had broken the ribs in Bruce’s chest, cracked his very sternum. His hands that had crushed Bruce’s esophagus. His damnable power that had brought him high up into the thinning atmosphere, robbing him of what little breath he had left.

He'd killed his best friend.

His best friend, who had loved him enough to stop him.

His best friend, who would never know he loved him back.

His best friend, whom he’d only realized he was in love with in the moments _after_ he’d killed him.

The burning that began in his gut as he knelt on that rooftop and spread to his chest when the kids—Bruce's kids—had taken Batman away turns into an inferno. Clark shoots himself into the sky, up through the atmosphere and into space so he can scream it out. He screams for minutes, maybe hours, as the tears freeze against his eyeballs. He screams until even his lungs and throat have exhausted themselves.

And still that scorching pain dwells inside him.

He thinks that if he lives forever, it will always be there, burning where his heart had been.

He stays in space.

Where else can he go?

Not home, not to Ma’s tears. If she hasn’t heard the news by now, she soon will. The whole world will know.

Not to the Fortress, where Bruce had spent so many hours talking with the Jor-El AI over the years as he worked out ways to cobble together human and Kryptonian tech, sometimes for Clark, sometimes for the League, other times for the betterment of all.

Clark can still remember his surprise when Bruce had one day launched into a stilted, halting Kryptonian greeting upon seeing the Jor-El hologram materialize. That shy smile of pride when, for a minute, both Clark and the AI had been too completely and delightedly surprised to answer.

He can’t go to the Watchtower, either. He doesn’t need to look into his teammates’, his _friends_ ', eyes to know what he has cost them. _Who_ he has cost them.

The knowledge is still burning away in the detritus of his heart.

His hands, his uniform, are still stained with red.

With guilt.

He floats. Still. Aimless.

Space has never been so cold.

The universe has never been so silent.

He doesn’t know he’d set his hearing to register Bruce’s heartbeat in the back of his mind until he chases the yawning emptiness in hopes of distracting himself, only to realize the cause is the very fact that he’s avoiding.

Bruce is dead.

Because Clark killed him.

The League must decide to give him some space, because it’s some time before he sees Diana flying toward him. But even she needs to breathe to speak, and so ignoring her is just a matter of turning away.

She gives up, after a time. Called away by some emergency or other. But after she climbs into the Javelin, just before the jet speeds off, he hears her.

“Bruce would not have wanted this for you, my friend.”

Then she’s gone with the others to save lives. How many, he doesn’t know. They could probably use Superman; he could find out what it is by just taking a moment to pay attention. But what does it matter?

There is always some emergency or other.

Bruce used to tease him about always needing to help. Called him Boy Scout.

Clark doesn’t want to help this time.

He doesn't _care_ to help.

Time compresses, expands.

Sometime later, it is J’onn flying to him. J’onn doesn’t need breath to speak.

But he is less concerned with talking than Diana is. So he tells Clark three things.

First, the Joker is in custody.

Second, the funeral is today. Or rather the ceremony Gotham City has planned to honor its fallen knight.

Third, the Bat Family has asked that he not be present.

He feels satisfaction at the first, dread at the second, grim resignation at the third. He nods to show his understanding. J’onn goes away, probably to prepare himself for the memorial service. Clark has no illusions that the League will turn up in anything but full force to pay respects to one of its founders.

He hopes they won’t leave the Joker unguarded.

The thought sends cracks through the wall Clark didn’t know he’d erected between himself and his feelings until just this moment.

Clark can’t be at the memorial.

But there _is_ something he can do.

The cracks widen.

The burning inside him turns into a molten flood.

Clark opens his eyes. Stretches his hearing.

Rage pours through.


	4. Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father has been dead before. This is what Damian keeps thinking.

Father has been dead before.

This is what Damian keeps thinking. The family had believed Batman had perished after a battle with Darkseid, just a few months after Damian had first come to live with them. Then, the pain had been a sharp, throbbing thing inside him, like some invisible limb had been severed.

What he feels now seems much the same, on the surface.

But underneath is a dark, roiling poison that starts just behind his sternum and spreads out to his extremities.

Before, he had the comfort of knowing his father had defeated an enemy no other hero had vanquished, that he had saved the world.

Now, the alien who stole Father’s life away remains unpunished, a subject of _sympathy_. Now, his father has been murdered by someone who was supposed to be an ally, and the Justice League acts as if this is not a fundamental betrayal of their purpose.

Before, his family had been mired in grief, but also united in it, for all they had fought bitterly over the best way to perpetuate Father’s legacy.

Now some wish to forgive, while others are frustrated by an inability to exact vengeance. All are confused. Why had Father sent them away, when they might have helped him? Why had Father felt the need to bear the weight of his contingency plans on his own, with not even the League for true backup?

Before, Grayson had served as Damian’s rock, offering him purpose in the face of Damian’s feelings of failure and untetheredness. Strength when he wavered in his dedication to Father’s Mission. Comfort in his grief and frustration.

Now, Grayson has seldom left his room in the Manor in the days since Father’s death. He had spotted his brother outside his chamber but thrice in as many days.

The first had been to feed the shreds of what Damian could see were posters of the alien into the fireplace in Father’s study. The second had been to descend into the Cave, don his uniform, and call the Justice League to inform them that Father’s murderer would not be welcome at the public memorial service the city had insisted on having for Batman. The third is now, as they dress in the uniforms of their family’s Mission and prepare to present themselves before the statue of the Bat the city has erected in the soon-to-be-rechristened Knight’s Park.

It's Gotham's attempt to honor Father's sacrifice. The city will never even come close to realizing the breadth and depth of what Father had given it. That had been Father's intent, that everything that was _Bruce Wayne_ be subsumed by the symbol of the Bat, of the Wayne Foundation. And no matter how Damian might wish he could shout it from the rooftops, he would honor his father's wishes to remain the city's silent benefactor. Its savior.

But at the very least, their family will have this. And so they will sit through speeches by people who had never truly known Father. People who had only passing acquaintance with the cause of Justice to which Father had dedicated his life. People who had never walked the streets Father had loved and fought for and bled on.

Only to die in a city that was not his own.

At the hands of his so-called best friend.

So much for the World’s Finest.

Damian is grateful that their masks hide his brother’s ravaged eyes from the watching populace.

He’s grateful they hide his own eyes, which are not much better.

He pities Tim, and Cassandra, who will be appearing in their civilian garb to stand beside the Martian, who will be shapeshifting to look like Bruce Wayne, while Alfred speaks to him mind-to-mind to coach him on Brucie’s foibles.

This is yet another of Father’s contingencies, of course—not to protect the world or the Kryptonian this time, but to protect the family. To protect his Legacy.

Still, he does not envy them the task of looking upon someone who might physically be the exact replica of Bruce Wayne, but at the same time so fundamentally _not_ Father.

He doesn’t know that he could look upon those eyes today and see a stranger’s regard instead of the measuring gaze and veiled intensity that sharpened that ice blue.

Still, as he and Nightwing move into place atop one of the roofs overlooking the park—watching over the crowd that had already begun to form the day before, camping out overnight and coming armed with candles and flowers to honor their fallen knight—he makes sure to stay close to his brother.

Close enough to lean in, to offer comfort where he could. To take it when he might need it.

He looks over the thousands of heads, the colorful signs and shirts and faces painted with his father’s emblem. Between programmed events, people talk, and sing, and cry.

Father would not have wanted this much fanfare. But in Damian's eyes, it is only right that this city mourn its protector.

The speeches drone on. Some are heartfelt stories shared by the people Father had saved. Some are grandiloquent and a waste of the air used to utter them, spoken by politicians hoping to stand upon what success Father had had in his never-ending quest for Gotham’s salvation.

Then comes Wonder Woman, who has been named the official spokesperson for the Justice League. She speaks of a comrade who fought with her in countless battles. A friend who helped her navigate through Man’s World when she had come from a mystical island where only women dwelt. She names Batman a forever-honored member of the League. Speaks of him as an equal.

Damian sneers at her words.

Father was the _best_ of them. They do not yet even know what they have lost. He suspects they will not realize it until the next invasion, or investigation, when they will contact the Cave and ask for assistance only the Bats could give them, and realize they no longer count the Bats among their ranks. Grayson had decided, and the family agreed. No more Bats on the regular League roster.

The _alien_ would have known the loss they suffered. Had known it, as he'd desperately clutched Father to him, that day. Damian had seen as much.

But it was the alien who had taken Father away.

As the Princess offers up a prayer to her gods to guide Gotham’s Knight into eternal rest, Nightwing reaches for him.

Normally Robin would object to the hug, but he lets his brother tuck him into his side and squeeze hard around his shoulders.

He pretends not to feel the way that solid chest quivers and hitches. Pretends not to hear the gasp of a swallowed sob.

Though there are hundreds of thousands, perhaps even a million people, in the crowd, his eyes move unerringly to meet those of Cassandra.

She gazes at him for a long moment, then Grayson, then back to him. She looks down, to her hand at her side, and then away. Damian watches as she gestures a question.

_OK?_

No, of course not. If there is one thing Damian knows, it is that none of them will be “OK” again for a good long while. Not even Todd, who has always made it a point to antagonize Father.

Todd, who has skipped today’s ceremony in favor of guarding the Joker against those—and one particular alien—who would seek to kill him before he can be tried and sentenced for Father’s death. And for someone who purports to hate Father because of his failure to kill the clown in vengeance for killing him, Damian thinks this is the pinnacle of irony.

Had Damian still belonged to the Shadows, the Joker would already be dead for his machinations, and so would the alien, for his bumbling failure to defend against the threat even though the files that had informed Father's contingency plans had been accessible to any senior member of the League.

But Father had believed the Joker was ill, and Father had not believed any good could be wrought of murder.

And Damian had conscripted himself to his father’s cause.

Because he'd seen it was righteous. Because he'd seen Father's heart and known it to be good. Because he'd been offered a place in the family, a chamber of that heart, and he'd wanted it. Taken it.

But he has no desire to get between the Joker and Superman.

Let them battle it out. Let them steep themselves in their own evil.

Damian has vowed to protect the innocent. This he will do, if not alongside his father any longer, then in his memory.

But both the clown and the alien had blood on their hands.

So Damian— _Robin_ —will crouch upon this roof, and listen to speeches filled with nothing. Watch a city mourn the man who had never failed it. Watch so-called heroes grieve for the man _they_ had failed. Comfort his brother as best he can.

This is what Damian can do.

This is what he _will_ do.

Then Gordon takes the podium.

Of all the people who have spoken today, the commissioner alone might have earned the right to stand with their family. He might have the most to say about Father.

He had comforted the boy whose world had bled to death in an alleyway.

He had acted as partner to the detective finding his path through the night.

He had never forsaken the Bat.

But Gordon’s speech is short. He tells a brief tale of a newly minted detective sergeant who had forged an alliance with a voice in the night who promised justice in a town known for having none. He speaks of midnight meetings, shining a light into dark skies.

And then he speaks of the future.

And looks right at them.

Or rather, at their rooftop.

The crowd starts to turn to look as well.

“That’s our cue, Little D.” His brother's hands may tremble, but his voice has steeled with determination.

And so they descend.

To promise a city long mired in darkness that hope remains.

That Bats still fly the skies of Gotham.

Father would be proud, he thinks. Of all of them.


	5. Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jason’s brothers want to wallow, that’s their business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamelessly cribbed some lines from _Injustice: Gods Among Us_ , which I am little by little watching on YouTube, cause eff if I know how to write the Joker.

If Jason’s brothers want to wallow, that’s their business.

Bruce might have been the king of wallowing, but he was also the king of getting shit done while wallowing.

And if there is one lesson the Old Man had taught Jason that has stuck with him through everything, it’s how to.

Get.

Shit.

Done.

And the shit that needs doing right now?

Is making sure Superman doesn’t up and kill the Joker’s ass when he gets done with his own damn wallowing.

Go figure the Boy Scout would tackle self-pity with the go-big-or-go-home approach.

The Red Hood might not be part of the Justice League, but like any Bat, he’s got his ear to the ground, always. So he knows Supes has just been hanging around in space moping over killing the Bat.

Flashes of green flicker at the edge of his vision. Okay, not a good thought.

And isn’t it shitty that after everything, the Old Man can still set Jason rocking off the zen mode he uses to keep the madness of the Pit at bay?

But then again, what else is new?

Roll with your traumas, that’s the other lesson he’s learned from Bruce over the years.

Or maybe it’s a sub-lesson under the overarching syllabus of Get Shit Done.

“Hoohoohoo, why aren’t you at the big party, birdie? Lost your invite? Heeheeheehee!”

Jason’s standing by the door, trying not to look at the man, at the monster, sitting handcuffed to the table in the center of the room. More than Bruce, more than anyone, the Joker limns his vision in green with just a word or a cackle or a tilt of his head.

Part of it, Jason thinks, is basic: The Joker _needs_ to die.

This had been the sticking point between him and Bruce; even as they had clawed and crawled their carcasses over their issues, this was a fundamental truth to Jason that Bruce had always denied.

But today, and in the days since Bruce’s death, Jason and Bruce agree on one thing: Superman needs to _not_ be the guy who kills the Joker.

See, of all Bruce’s collection of wayward children, except perhaps Cass and maybe one day the Demon Brat, Jason has always been the best at seeing the big picture.

So he knows something about why Bruce did what he did.

Why it had to be Bruce.

It’s acid in his belly, but he can still see it.

So he sits here, gun at the ready and loaded with K-bullets, protecting the one man in the world he’d give anything to be able to put a bullet through the brains of.

“Fuck. Me.”

“What’s that? I’m afraid you’re not my type, Bird Brain. Now, that Daddy Bats of yours, I wouldn’t have minded getting a piece of that. Hihihihi! But I guess that’ll _never_ happen now. Because why? Oh, right! Cause I aimed at Superman and pulled the trigger! Ahuhuhuhu!”

“Shut up, asshole, or I’ll put a bullet through you myself!”

“Now, now, Birdie, there’s no reason to lose your temper. Wasn’t it I, Jokey, who sent you on your path to enlightenment? Why, if I hadn’t brained you with that crowbar all those years ago, you might still be wearing those short little shorts to this very day!”

“I said _shut up_!”

Jason stalks over, flips the gun in his hand so he’s holding onto the barrel, and whacks the clown across the face with the handle.

The Joker is dazed by the pistol-whip for a moment, but shakes his head and starts cackling, and Jason’s vision is washed in verdant tones.

Then there’s a concussive blast behind him and the world is lit in red.

Ah, shit.

Jason turns to see Superman hovering just outside the building, visible through the hole he’s just blasted in the wall of the Joker’s cell.

“Get away from him,” the big blue Boy Scout bites out.

“The Bats are handling this,” Jason growls back.

But Superman ignores him to stalk forward, eyes fixed on the Joker. He tosses the desk into the side of the room; it smashes into pieces against the wall.

Then he grabs Joker by the lapels and shoves him against the opposite wall, a two-way mirror, as it happens. Jason really, really hopes there aren’t cameras rolling behind it. “You drugged me… Made me… Ki-Hurt...”

Jason sneers. Big Blue can’t even say it. He watches the Kryptonian dip his head, light lining his face with guilt and pain and bitter, bitter regret.

“Batman…” Superman’s whisper is a study in agony, and the tone of it as much as the name sends the Pit burning behind Jason’s eyeballs once more.

“Oh, Supey. First Krypton, now Batman. People you love just seem to die, don’t they?”

Oh God, and it’s just Jason’s luck the clown lacks any sort of sense of self-preservation at all.

Growling, Clark pulls back his fist in a painfully slow movement.

Well, guess it’s time Jason started earning his keep.

“Superman, don’t!” he yells.

The move pays off, seems to divert the blow so it shatters the glass behind the Joker instead. But the Joker is laughing.

“Hahihihihoo! That’s why I like you, Superman. You’re much more gullible than—”

Jason is _seriously_ tempted to off the guy himself.

There’s some satisfaction when Superman tosses the clown across the room to the opposite wall, which the Joker hits with a meaty thump.

The Joker struggles to his feet.

Jason will give it to the guy. He just doesn’t know when to quit. He should have stayed down.

“You and Batsy and your epic bromance. Or is it _romance_? It’s enough to make an old clown jealous, y'know. Really, I didn’t even have him in my sights. I was aiming for a rather more… traditional target.”

“Lois… My son…” The words are strangling in Superman’s throat, or they sound like it.

“You think you can have a family. That locking me up will magically reform me. And they’ll be safe. But big surprise! You didn’t really love _them_ , did you? Still, you have to understand. I couldn’t let you have them, and Batsy too.”

Shit. Jason has always known the Joker sees way too much.

But the clown is still talking, righting his toppled chair and sitting down at it so he can sneer up at the Man of Steel as if those laser eyes aren’t already gleaming red. “So big. So dumb. Hihihihehahahaha!”

That maniacal laughter echoes in Jason’s head. He needs to step in. He can’t see Clark’s face, but the red is bright and nearly haloing him. And the Joker, that fucker. Is. Still. Talking.

“Now run along, so I can break out of here. I’ve got lots of planning to do to top this! Of course it won’t be the same without old Batsy, will it?”

Superman grabs Joker by the throat and lifts him high. For a moment, Jason is frozen—it’s exactly what he had done to Batman. They’d all watched it happen on the cowl cam. Then he shakes himself and strides forward.

“That’s enough.”

But Clark shoves him back, and he doesn’t put much force in it, or Jason would be flying out the hole in the wall. As it is, he knows he’s going to be feeling the blow for days.

By some miracle, he keeps hold of his gun.

And the Joker.

Is.

Still.

Talking.

“I know it’s soon,” the clown says, and his tone is almost gentle, almost understanding. Jason’s vision mists green. That tone is nothing but trouble. He's heard it before, in a warehouse in Ethiopia. “But… Do you think you’ll ever love again? Maybe you _won’t_ kill your next boyfriend.”

Superman screams, a wordless, guttural sound. He pulls his arm back.

And Jason does what he does best.

He gets shit done.

Aims his gun and pulls the trigger.

Gets Superman right in the shoulder.

The Joker drops.

Superman whirls to face Jason.

“Why?” he yells. “Why would you stop me? You of all people should know he _deserves_ to die.”

And what do you know? Jason’s got a set on him too, because he picks himself up off the floor, dusts himself off with the hand not holding his gun, and adjusts his jacket with all the dignity of a boy who learned manners from Alfred Pennyworth. And learned to brazen things out from Bruce Wayne.

“Yeah,” he says heavily. “Don’t I know it.”

“Then… Why?”

Jason leans against the wall, the part of it that hadn’t crumbled when Clark made his entrance, anyway. “Because you don’t get to be the one who kills him.”

“Oh, yes, I do.” Clark turns back to the Joker, and Jason fires another shot, into his leg this time. Superman staggers then falls to one knee.

“No. You _don’t_.” He moves forward now, stands between Clark and the Joker. He sees the wounds he’s inflicted are both through-and-throughs. Good.

He bends down.

Lowers his voice.

“The Old Man paid with his life to make sure you wouldn’t take this path,” he says evenly. And watches those red eyes fade into blue pools of pain. “I owe him enough to make sure his death isn’t in vain."

Superman opens his mouth to speak. But Jason forges on.

"Think about what _you_ owe him. He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

Clark’s face contorts at that. “J—”

“Fly away, Superman,” Jason says, his voice hard and unforgiving. “Do what you should have done when your hand was on my dad’s throat instead of the Joker’s.”

And, after a tense moment, the world's most powerful man does what Jason tells him to do.

Jason watches him go before he turns back to the Joker.

Who clasps his hands together, bats his eyes, and beams in seeming delight.

“Oh, Bird Brain! You _saved_ me! However will I thank you?”

He uses the butt of his gun to knock the Joker unconscious.

“Shut up, asshole.”


	6. Lois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been over a month, and Clark hasn’t come back.

It’s been over a month, and Clark hasn’t come back. 

Not to the Daily Planet, where Lois has been covering his ass and doing some fast talking to make sure Perry doesn’t just fire him out of hand for going AWOL. She tells him Clark’s on the ground in Gotham. Maybe he believes it, because Bruce Wayne has requested his “favorite reporter” often enough that of all the writers on the Planet’s payroll, Clark’s the one with the most contacts in Bruce’s city.

But Perry tells her to “just tell Kent to get his ass back here ASAP” with a look in his eye that has her wondering (and not for the first time) if he knows who Clark is when he’s not playing the mild-mannered reporter. Probably. Perry White’s got a few Pulitzers to his name, and he didn’t get those by being fooled by slouched shoulders, a criminally bad sense of fashion, and a pair of glasses.

Clark hasn’t returned to see their son, either, which worries her more. The one thing they had agreed on when they’d divorced was that their son would never feel the lack of either of them in his life. Before this, Clark had never failed to see Jon at least once a day in the four years since his birth, not even after their divorce had been finalized just over a year ago.

Now it’s been a month, and Lois has been forced to dry too many tears as her boy cries for his father. These tears she resents in a way she has not resented the ones Jon has shed when she’d been forced to tell him his favorite Unca Boosie would not be coming back. She’s shed enough tears of her own not to be a hypocrite.

It’s been a damn hard month.

Truth be told, it isn’t just Clark she misses, but Bruce. She doesn’t know when the man had become her second-best friend and confidant, but he’d been there for her through her marriage. Had been one of the people who’d most convinced her she could be a good mom, when her lifestyle had always been about jumping from one big story to the next, when her upbringing had had her escaping her family at the first opportunity, when the cracks in her and Clark’s relationship had already begun to be visible.

And Bruce had helped her through her divorce too. And wasn’t that messed up, that the man she’d long ago realized was in love with her husband had been the one to help her through her breakup with said husband, who she’d realized loved his best friend more than he did her?

But messed up was about the speed her life had always run at. And by the time she’d known Bruce well enough to guess at this particular secret, she’d already known he would never have done anything to get between her and Clark. So by the time she realized that while she loved Clark more than anybody apart from Jon, that love wasn’t necessarily romantic, and she really _hated_ being married to Superman. Well. She’d started hoping the divorce papers would offer Clark the kind of boot to the ass that would have him realizing what was right in front of his face.

Now it’s too late.

Today, Lois helped Alfred put in motion the narrative that would allow the Waynes to lay Bruce to rest beside the parents he’d worked all his life to honor, for all only a few people know how _hard_ that work had been.

Tomorrow’s Daily Planet will lead with the headline _Wayne Jet Missing Over Atlantic: Billionaire Presumed Dead_. The byline would read Clark Kent and Lois Lane, her first on the front page in five weeks, though she’s been filing stories as Clark for over a fortnight.

Today she sat in a media war room as Perry called in his top reporters to tell them to keep an ear out and an eye on Gotham. It’s not just because Wayne Enterprises bought the Daily Planet years ago—and hadn’t that pissed Clark off to no end? Lois still remembers laughing at him over it—but because it is now a powder keg waiting to explode. 

In the weeks since Batman’s highly publicized death, the world has learned a lot about Metropolis’s sister city. Everyone expected Gotham to slide into lawlessness without the Bat to watch over its rooftops. Not so much, it turns out. Villain after villain is thrown into Arkham or Blackgate beat within an inch of their lives. The Bats, without Batman, are _brutal_. The Robins most of all.

Lois remembers a time when she had thought Bruce was conscripting child soldiers to be his Robins, only to be quickly disabused of the notion by every boy who has ever taken on the role of Batman’s partner. _Partner_ , Bruce had called each one of his Robins and Batgirls. Always. Never sidekick. 

He’d revealed to her once that the only child he’d had who hadn’t been chomping at the bit to put on the mask had been Jason, and even that hadn’t lasted long after the boy had started to thrive in his self-defense lessons. He’d had to hold back each of the boys, and in the end had consented to their joining his Mission instead of letting them sneak off on their own at night.

“Why can’t one, even just _one_ of my children, be happy living a civilian life?” Bruce had bemoaned over dinner some years ago, right after Damian had debuted as Robin. She and Clark had laughed at his woebegone look, his hair sticking out every which way because he’d kept pulling at it as he’d recounted his kids’ latest shenanigans.

God, she misses him.

“Gotham’s lost its Dark Knight and its White Knight in the same year,” Perry had told them today. “It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

If it bleeds, it leads. It’s something every reporter learns from the first. She has never hated her profession more than she does today.

And she knows exactly how Jimmy Olsen feels, in donating all earnings from his sure-to-be Pulitzer Prize winning shots of the moments after Batman’s death to the Justice League’s disaster relief fund. 

Just writing the article about that downed plane makes her feel dirty, stained. Knowing she’s perpetuating a lie to paint the man she’s learned to love like a brother as anything less than someone who died a hero.

It makes her feel sick, even though she knows she’s doing exactly what Bruce would’ve wanted her to do. Conning the world one more time into believing Bruce Wayne did not have the biggest heart of anyone she’d ever met. 

She feels cheap. Guilty. Unworthy.

She wants to spend the next several days wallowing in bed. Or trying to get to Gotham to offer what sympathy or comfort the Bats might be willing to accept. But she can do neither.

Perry gave her a month’s leave to recover immediately after her kidnapping. She’d received death threats, mostly from Gothamites. Especially after the _Gazette_ had published a scathing op-ed declaring her the Justice League’s Yoko Ono. She is determined to Have Words with Vicki Vale the next time she sees that little redheaded pain monger in reporter’s clothing.

It’s her first week back.

She has dreaded the idea of writing about her experience as the Joker’s hostage, of her last moments with Bruce—with Batman—and Superman’s subsequent absence following his aborted attack on the Joker. 

And it is an absence, one she resents because right now is when she, the League, and the world need Clark the most. Diana has told Lois that after spending several days in bitter self-isolation in space, Superman tried to kill the clown, only to be foiled by the Bat Family. The Watchtower then tracked him to his Fortress, where he refused to respond to their hails, except to tender his resignation from the League, which Diana refused to accept.

He hasn’t answered Lois’s calls, either.

Well.

She’s had enough.

She takes out the comm Bruce gave her.

Her fingers tremble as she remembers the way he’d gently pulled the gag off her, that day. Had taken the time to soothe her panic. Had taken the _cowl_ off, so he could give her a way to contact his boys, to make sure her son was safe.

It had meant he wouldn’t have been able to hear his own children, in those final moments.

Lois bites back a sob. Swallows it down.

Now is not the time to think of all the many things she regrets about Bruce.

She needs to lead with anger.

And this is the one channel Superman would never block from the Fortress’s communications system.

She activates the comm. 

Makes the call.

He picks up. _Of course_ he picks up. Nevermind that he’s been screening calls from Perry and Jimmy. The League. Her.

“ _B-Bruce?_ ”

The broken pieces of her heart squeeze painfully at the naked hope in his voice. “No. It’s me. Don’t hang up.”

“ _Lois? H-how do you… How did you get on this channel?_ ”

She closes her eyes. “Bruce gave it to me. That day.”

There’s silence on the other end. 

“Clark… We need to talk.”

“ _There’s nothing to talk about._ ”

“I think there is. You haven’t been to see Jon.”

“ _I’ve been listening to his heartbeat. He’s fine._ ”

“He’s _not_ fine, Clark. He needs his father. He needs you.”

“ _He’s better off without me._ ”

“Bull. Shit.”

“ _He’s better off without me._ ”

It has always been Bruce who’s called Clark on the biggest piles of BS he can come up with and convince himself of. Lois battles down another wave of grief, goddamn it, and steps up.

“I call bullshit, Smallville. You get your ass here and see your son.” _Your son that Batman saved_ , is what she doesn’t add. But she reserves the right to guilt him with the Power of Bruce if need be. Somehow, wherever he is, she thinks Bruce would approve.

He arrives thirty minutes later, which is more than enough time for someone who can fly without a plane _and_ break the sound barrier doing it.

And considering that she’s seen him get ready for work—including showering, shaving, and dressing up—in under two minutes before, she’s not ready to forgive him for showing up looking like someone who spent the last four weeks in a dumpster. But she doesn’t know how else to think of it, when his clothes are wrinkled, his beard is scraggly and lopsided, and his hair looks like he stuck his finger in a live socket for funsies.

“You look like shit, Smallville.”

“Lois. You asked me to come, I’m here. You didn’t say anything about looking presentable.”

Oh, so that’s how he’s going to play it? “I called you here to reassure your son, not scare the daylights out of him.” She glares at him, and when he just crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, she sighs. “I’ve still got some of your spare clothes. Take a shower. Shave. Brush your damn hair. You know where everything is.”

He does as ordered and spends an hour letting Jon cling to him, but eventually says he has to go. She knows for a fact he’s not been working his day job, nor his extracurriculars, but she doesn’t push him to stay longer.

“You can’t just hide away from the world, Clark,” is what she finally settles on. “That’s not what Bruce would have wanted.”

His shoulders slump further. “I know,” he says tiredly. “And… I’ll come back. I’ll be Superman again. I just need… I don’t know. More time, maybe.”

“Fine,” she relents. “Don’t be Superman. We don’t need you to be. But we _do_ need you to be Clark.”

“I know you’ve been covering for me at the Planet. I appreciate it, really I do. I—”

“It’s not that, Clark,” she says gently. “Okay, well, yes maybe it is that cause I could really use some sleep. But what I mean is, be here for Jon, if not for me. Call your mom, because she’s out of her mind with worry and grieving for Bruce too. Call Diana, not because she’s now the de facto leader of the Justice League, but because she’s one of your best friends.”

“I—” He sighs. “I will, Lois. But not tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I—” She glares. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

He pecks her on the cheek and lets her wrap her arms around him in a hug, even if he doesn’t return it. Then he flies away.

Lois wipes the wetness from her face and wonders if things can get better.

They need to.

Anything less would be a betrayal.

To Bruce’s memory.

To themselves.

But for tonight, she’ll let herself cry for two stupid men who never had a chance to let themselves love each other.


	7. Alfred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred has never felt so ancient.

Alfred has never felt so ancient.

It’s been eight weeks since he’d watched his son—and he could admit the truth in the privacy of his own head—die. Watched the boy whose nappies he’d changed, whom he’d held in the wake of the tragedy of his youth, whom he’d aided in his god bedamned Mission fearing this exact outcome—watched as he was _murdered_.

Intellectually, he knows the Joker is to blame. Isn’t he always?

But he’d watched from Bruce’s eyes—or just as well might have—as that inhumanly perfect face had filled with rage. Had realized the exact moment Bruce knew he wasn’t making it back to them and tried to shut off the camera. He’d watched Superman’s face fill with horror and the bitterest regret.

And the hard part of his heart, the heart that had broken in that moment, had whispered, _Good_.

But it wasn’t any kind of comfort then.

Nor is it now.

He buried his boy three days ago. It had been a private affair in the dead of night, with only the family and a few friends present.

Two weeks ago, Arthur Curry had obligingly brought up the wreckage of a Wayne jet they’d downed for the purpose of Bruce’s cover identity, and Bruce Wayne had officially been presumed dead.

A week ago, there had been a large ceremony for Gotham’s Prince, its playboy philanthropist. Half of Gotham had turned up, it seemed. It had been very like the earlier ceremony for Batman. Neither had been real, and Alfred had stood with the family at both, done his job.

But three nights ago, that had just been for them. No one but the family’s closest confidants need know they had a body to bury.

Alfred had suffered losses in life. His mother. Then his father. Thomas and Martha. Jason. Bruce, once before now. But never before had he watched as dirt was laid on a coffin and wondered why they hadn’t put him in it as well.

They’d set up cameras around the plot, of course. After that incident where Thomas and Martha’s bodies had been stolen, and that time when Bruce had been buried alive, it would have been remiss of them not to. Alfred had watched as the boys had set up the equipment.

But this task of monitoring the feed he had claimed for himself alone.

The children had enough to do on Gotham’s streets, over its rooftops, and in its alleyways. That’s what he told them. 

In truth, this vigil is a selfish thing. He’d always had to share Bruce with his parents, and then with the boy’s grief and his own, and then with Gotham itself. 

Now Bruce is gone.

But Alfred still keeps watch.

Of course, Bruce doesn’t make it easy.

Then again, when has he ever? 

Apart from the press who think the headstones offer a dramatic background to their reports on the plane crash or all this new rubbish about a curse on the Wayne family, as if they were the Kennedys, there’s a never ending stream of heroes in disguise, Wayne Enterprises employees, and strangers, Gothamites whose lives have been touched by the Wayne Foundation or by Bruce himself.

Even some of the worst of Gotham’s villains—the ones the Robins and Batgirls haven’t thrown into Arkham or Blackgate, at any rate—manage to pay their respects. The first to visit is Harvey Dent. Alfred had pulled his weary body from his seat at the kitchen table, had come to Bruce’s grave with his shotgun in hand.

“You won’t need to use that, Alfie,” Dent says, and the nickname reminds Alfred of the boy who’d been all in awe of the Manor during those first few visits when he and Bruce had been in school together. Who’d been unfailingly polite and always grateful when Alfred had supplied them with sustenance during their afternoon study sessions, which Alfred had been gratified to know had included discussions on life and loves and fast cars as much as their academics. “I just wanted to say goodbye to an old friend.”

Alfred had been uncertain of his sincerity and remained braced for any untoward movement, but the man had only stood at the grave, looking down at it.

“He used to visit me, at Arkham, ya know? Anytime the Bat would throw me in, he’d come calling. He’d ask for me if I could talk t’him, but he never minded talking to Two-Face either, if that’s who he got that day. Wanted to know if we were getting cared for properly. Or just what we’d been reading or watching on the television.”

“Master Bruce never gave up on you,” Alfred had said stiffly.

“No, he didn’t. Didn’t give up on Gotham, either. Probably should have done, with me and Gotham both.”

“That wasn’t his nature.”

And Dent had barked out a laugh. Alfred pretended he didn’t see the tears streaming down his face—both sides of it. “No, it wasn’t. I tell ya, Alfie. All these idiots wailing how Batman’s gone, laying flowers on that damn statue. They don’t know they’ve lost the real hero right here.”

Alfred had left the man to his ruminations then. Three days later, just after they’d laid Bruce to rest, he’d pulled out his shotgun once again to face two more of Gotham’s costumed villains. Though these two had come in civilian clothing. 

Alfred was glad, for he could not have stomached Harley Quinn’s clown makeup and its associations. 

Not then. 

Perhaps not ever again.

He’d been shocked to see the bed of midnight blooms over his son’s grave.

“They’re hellebores of the Onyx Odyssey variety,” said the red-headed woman kneeling to one side of Bruce’s gravestone as she stroked the blooms lovingly. “We thought he’d like them.”

“You know I left Mistah Jay after… Well, after I found out what he did with the second Robin,” Quinn had said softly. “I told the B-Man he wouldn’t have to worry about me outing him to the press or anything like that.”

Alfred just stands, speechless.

“I never did, either! Never even told Waller when I was stuck with the Suicide Squad, but she seemed to know anyhow.”

“Mrs. Waller is… a special case,” was all he could manage.

“Special head case, that’s for sure. Hardass. Not like Mistah B here. He was a gentleman, ya know?”

“He was always kind to us,” Dr. Isley said. “Even when we crossed the line. He used to ask me for recommendations to keep Gotham as green as he could make it, sometimes.”

Alfred had sometimes despaired of Bruce’s leniency towards his rogues. Had questioned if the boy had known what he was doing in insisting they be helped to rehabilitate instead of locked away forever or, hell, put down like dogs. And truth be told, he wished desperately for the opportunity to one day shoot the Joker between the eyes. 

But now? As he watched these two women kneel over Bruce’s grave, newly awash with blooms so dark an indigo they appeared nearly black, he thought perhaps Bruce had been right all along.

After that, he hadn’t approached any more visitors, no matter who they might be.

Though he’d pray the Joker will come calling, because he won’t hesitate to bring out his shotgun and pull the trigger.

For his sins, the Clown never gives him that opportunity.

But he’s watched, day and night, alert to any comers, since that first false funeral. Saw visitors stand or sit or kneel or pace before the grave. Listened to them speak or cry or just breathe.

Not the children, at least. There’s a memorial in the Cave now, with a torn and bloody Batsuit in it, standing right beside the one that holds Jason’s old Robin suit. 

Alfred can’t bear to look at it, but he’s seen or heard Richard and Tim and Damian and even Jason speaking to it or just leaning against it. Cassandra, he knows, prefers to curl into the chair in front of the computer when she’s in the Cave. Otherwise, he’ll find her in Bruce’s study. He’s found all of them in Bruce’s bedroom at one point or another.

The day after it had happened, he’d seemed to operate mindlessly, and had gone to Master Bruce’s bedroom as a matter of habit. Had felt his heart leap in his chest to see a tousled black head on the pillow. Then felt it plummet when he’d recognized Richard’s tear-stained face instead of Bruce’s sleeping one. 

Had silently let himself out of the room so the sobs he couldn’t quite stifle wouldn’t wake the boy.

No amount of training or natural restraint had kept him from breaking into pieces in the hall outside Bruce’s bedroom that morning.

But Bruce had left his charges to Alfred’s care, and he would not fail them as he had failed Bruce, who had been heading for this fate the moment he had dreamt up his Mission. And so Alfred had picked up the scattered remnants of his heart and called upon that famous British stiff upper lip.

The vigil over Bruce’s grave is Alfred’s burden. 

His _privilege_.

Let Bruce’s sons carry out his Mission, build his Legacy. 

Alfred will watch over his boy. 

That is _his_ mission. Has been since Thomas and Martha named him guardian in their wills.

And so it is Alfred who sees Superman fly in silently just before dawn the morning after they bury Bruce in truth.

Who watches as the man whose hands stole his son’s life away sobs before the gravestone.

Who listens to whispered confessions come too late.

Though it is good to know this man his boy had loved had loved him in turn.

Clark returns nightly to the grave. And Alfred knows Superman has returned to the world, putting out fires, aiding in rescues after earthquakes and landslides. He never stays, never speaks beyond what is necessary. Never smiles. But he helps.

And he does not follow the path Bruce had feared he would.

So Alfred keeps silent company in his vigil.

Until tonight. 

Superman is on the other side of the world, assisting with evacuations following a spate of flooding during the monsoon season in Southeast Asia, Alfred knows. From experience, it will be a good long while before he returns.

The moon is new, and the sky is overcast, at any rate. A typical Gotham evening.

But the main cameras overlooking the Wayne family plot register the slightest flicker of movement. And then they go dark.

Alfred accesses the backup system.

Watches as figures hack at the flowers on the grave.

As a man in a green cloak and white-winged temples watches their progress.

Alfred reaches for his comm, ready to call in the family. But something has him training the camera on Ra’s al Ghul’s face.

Behind that remote facade is a stiff determination. Some look flashes across the face of the Head of the Demon for a single moment as he looks upon the headstone.

Alfred has dwelt too deeply in grief these many days not to recognize it, even in the barest of flickers in eyes long gone dead.

He watches those machetes descend for another moment.

Bruce would not have wanted this.

Watches as the shovels come out.

But Alfred is selfish.

He stays his hand.

He will never get to call the boy, _his_ boy, “son.”

Turns off the monitors.

Let him have this.

God help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did this chapter hurt you as much as it hurt me? I will confess it was the hardest for me to write, emotionally.


	8. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been two months since he killed his best friend, and Clark has a new normal.
> 
> For the first time in his life, he really _hates_ normal.

It’s been two months since he killed his best friend, and Clark has a new normal.

For the first time in his life, he really _hates_ normal.

But Clark has worked out a routine. He’d had one before, and hammering out a new one seemed his only hope of acquiring a measure of control in the midst of the madness that is his life now.

Funny how his new routine seems on the surface so much like his old one.

Before, the hours before dawn had often been spent hanging out with Bruce. In the Cave, more often than not. Occasionally, they’d talk into the dark hours in his study over hot chocolate, in rare moments of casual companionship Clark will forever treasure as some of his fondest memories. 

Now he spends that time at Bruce’s grave, sometimes in the still nighttime air, sometimes in the pouring rain. Kryptonians don’t much feel the cold even at the Earth’s poles, but Clark is always chilled in that quiet graveyard.

Then as dawn starts to touch the sky over the Atlantic, Clark whispers that learnt-to-late secret of his heart, _I love you_ , and lifts into the air. 

The early mornings, then as now, he spends with his son. Unless some sort of emergency calls him away, he plays with Jon, marvels at the boy’s rapidly developing powers. Teaches him control.

God, he’s going to need that control. 

Clark owes it to Jon, to Bruce, to make sure his son never grows up to become the killer Clark is.

He hands Jon over to his mom for the day, a task his cousin Kara had been doing in his absence, but one he’s glad to do once more. Lois had been right; Ma had been desperately worried about him in the weeks after Bruce’s death.

Now he did his penance by flying his son to her every day, taking a few moments to chat and let her see that, if he was not okay, then he was at least still among the living.

Even if he’d rather he’d been the one who’d died in Bruce’s place.

Still, after fulfilling his morning family duties, he suited up and did a quick patrol of Metropolis.

This too was a throwback from before, though he got none of the old joy he used to find in roaming his city. Where previously he might have stopped to talk to some of her citizens, now he carried his tasks out with an efficiency Bruce might have approved of.

God, he missed Bruce teasing him about how he was so often late to work because he’d spent too much time letting Velma, the old lady who fed the pigeons in Heroes’ Park, tell him all about the latest antics of her grandchildren. Or listening to bar owner Bibbo Bibowski reminisce about his glory days as a boxer as he cleans out the Ace O’ Clubs before going to bed for the day in the apartment above.

 _Damn Boy Scout_ , Bruce used to grumble.

Nobody calls him a boy scout now. Not with the blood on his hands.

After patrol, he dons his suit and glasses and reports to the Planet. He’s lost weight in the past few weeks, and his work clothes, always a size bigger, now hang even more loosely on his frame.

 _When are you going to let me get you a proper suit that actually fits you, Clarkie?_ Brucie had often teased when Clark would have to cover a Wayne Enterprises or Wayne Foundation event. _Can’t have my favorite reporter looking like an overgrown Rugrats character!_

During the day he’d sneak out to deal with one crisis or another, typing up his stories in between. 

Maybe he should’ve taken Bruce’s offer of a freelance writing gig so he wouldn’t have to keep up a facade.

After work he picks Jon up, brings him to Lois. Sometimes he’ll join them for dinner; other times, he’ll find an excuse to beat a hasty retreat after hugging his son goodbye and pecking Lois on the cheek. Some days it hurts to know he has them only because Bruce paid too high a price.

He patrols the evenings. If he’s a little harsher on the criminals he encounters than he used to be, well, what of it? Bruce had always said he was too soft.

And evenings let him keep an ear (and when he can get away with it, an eye) on the Bats. Lois is right to call the Robins bloodthirsty, and the Batgirls too. Criminals are all sorts of colors by the time they’re deposited on the GCPD’s doorstep. Clark doesn’t interfere, but he monitors them rather closely.

Batman was always worrying about his kids. His _partners_. Clark had been amused by B’s insistence on calling them that, when the other heroes would talk about _sidekicks_. But Bruce’s respect had to be earned before a Bat could be allowed to fight alongside him. And Bruce had called Dick and Jason his partners before he’d ever bestowed that honor on Clark.

With new eyes, Clark looks upon those memories and realizes his amusement and exasperation had often been tinged with the green edge of envy.

Now those partners are left without Batman’s formidable backup.

So Clark keeps an ear out.

The Bats go home to their roosts or their caves by the wee hours, three or four in the morning at the outside, sticking to Bruce’s schedule even though he’s no longer there to enforce it.

Some nights, Dick cries himself to sleep. Sometimes he comforts himself and Damian.

Most nights, Tim works himself into the ground, falling asleep writing reports on the BatComputer or reviewing stock analyses on his laptop. If he’s lucky, Steph will drag him to bed before she goes to cuddle with Cass.

The sounds of Jason’s nightmares haunt Clark into the daylight.

The world is never quiet. Not for Superman.

But in those hours after the Bats turn in, it’s quiet enough.

And Clark spends them leaning against a now-familiar gravestone. A bit of quality time with his best friend.

Nevermind that thoughts of Bruce seem to permeate every waking moment.

Then again, that’s not new either.

What a fool he was, for not realizing he was in love with the man, when it seems his sun rose and set with Bruce and had been doing so for years.

Now, no matter what time or day or night, Clark finds himself wandering in an eternal dusk.

He knows Alfred watches him, watches over Bruce’s resting place. But Alfred has been ever present in Bruce’s life, and Clark appreciates that constancy in Bruce’s death.

The thing is, he knows Bruce would be disappointed in him.

He still flies as Superman. Still helps in the face of disaster.

But his heart isn’t in it.

(His heart is buried six feet down, inhumed in a ceremony he hadn’t been allowed to attend.)

Then, days after Bruce is buried, something changes.

Clark is late to what he’s secretly, morbidly called his nightly date with Bruce. It’s flooding in some island country in the Pacific, and he has to search and evacuate what feels like a million tenements.

At first the movements are quiet. They sound like the Bats, and Clark doesn’t notice there’s so many more of them in Gotham than there should be. Then there’s a distinct sound of shoveling.

Clark wants nothing more than to fly out to Gotham. But he’s heard enough of what Bruce would want, thought enough about it, that he stays and does his job. Even though each life saved as the minutes and then hours tick by adds another storey onto the tower of resentment he’s building on the cruel altar of _Superman_.

It’s coming on dawn and they’re at the airfield, a half-dozen Shadows hoisting a black-laquered coffin, when he finally manages to get in front of the assassins. The _thieves_.

“Ah. Kryptonian. Somehow I thought it would be the butler I would be speaking with this morning.”

“Ra’s.” Clark plants his feet. Crosses his arms. “I won’t let you take him.”

“And why not, Superman? Would you not like the opportunity to correct your mistake?”

A woman steps forward. Dark body suit hiding more weapons than he’s ever seen on a person. Dark hair. Green eyes he’s more used to seeing on Damian, and not quite so soulless. He narrows his own eyes. “We are here to undo your crime, alien.”

Ah. So that’s where Damian gets it. “Bruce wouldn’t want this.”

“You presume to speak for my beloved?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You presume to call him beloved?”

“I have more right than you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Enough!” Ra’s glares at his daughter until she turns and boards the plane with a final sneer at Clark.

“I won’t let you take his body.”

“I only seek to right a wrong.”

“He wouldn’t want this.” Clark knows it’s true. He wishes it weren’t.

“The Detective made an art of denying his own wants in favor of the needs of the many. The Detective no doubt sacrificed himself so the world would not be without its Superman.”

Clark squares his jaw. What is there to say to that?

“Come now, Kryptonian. Can you truly say the world is better off without Batman?”

Of course not.

Ra’s smiles. He knows he’s won. Clark bites back on vitriol. 

“You don’t touch him.”

Not Ra’s. Not Talia. Never Talia. Never again.

“No one touches him but me.”

The ancient assassin inclines his head. “By all means, if you prefer to be the one to handle what remains of him, I have no objections. But there is only one Lazarus Pit capable of truly resurrecting the dead, and it is some distance away.”

So Clark boards the plane alongside Bruce’s coffin.

They’re flying over the Atlantic when his comm pings. A diverted call from his cell, from Lois. 

She would never let him do this.

She would call Diana, the League, if she knew.

Call Dick.

No.

He turns his comm off.

Takes his phone out of a pocket in his cape. Texts, _Bad day. Need some time._

Shuts it off.

Goes to find Ra’s.

“Tell me what to expect.”

Hours later, they land on an island in the Indian Ocean, and Clark follows the Head of the Demon into the heart of a volcano.

The assassins lay the coffin on the ground beside a boiling Lazarus pit. Its waters are a sickly amorphous swirl of green and orange. 

“Get out.”

“You will need assistance restraining him,” Ra’s warns.

“I’ll handle it. Get out.”

And the assassins melt away into the shadows. Clark listens for heartbeats, finds none in his immediate vicinity.

He kneels beside Bruce’s coffin. Places a hand on the lid and closes his eyes for a moment. Praying for luck. 

For benediction. 

For forgiveness. 

He won’t get either, but he’s already set his feet on this path. He knows he’ll see it through.

He takes a deep breath, and heaves the lid open. It feels heavier than it should be.

Bruce is beautiful.

He’s always known this, of course. But it’s been so long since he’s seen that face. The Bats had kept him in cold storage, and it’s only been three days since he was put into the ground. The weather’s been cool. 

He looks perfect.

Like he’s sleeping.

Like he’ll wake up soon.

Clark traces that face with trembling fingers. Bends to kiss those lips. Leans his forehead against his friend’s, his love’s. Whispers, “Please forgive me.”

He lifts the most precious thing in the world into his arms.

Eases the body into the Pit.

And waits.

It doesn’t take long.

Minutes, maybe seconds.

Bruce emerges screaming.

The sound curdles Clark’s blood. He has a moment to wonder if he’s made a mistake.

Then Bruce is leaping out of the Lazarus Pit, eyes wide and face contorted.

Clark moves to intercept him, and it’s a struggle that has him fighting not to use too much of his super strength in the face of Bruce’s terrifying skill, even in this madness.

“Bruce!” he shouts desperately, arms around his friend.

Bruce isn’t just alive—he looks years younger. His eyes blaze green, then fade to that ice blue. But the expression in them isn’t one Clark’s seen before. There’s a wildness to them, a rage and desperation.

Still, Clark seeks to soothe, shushing the other man as he holds him immobile despite his struggles. “Shhh,” he says over and over again, hugging him as best he can. “It’s okay, Bruce. You’re okay. I’m here. Shh. I love you.”

But Bruce continues to strain against him, growling.

He needs a change of plan.

Ra’s had warned him about a heightened adrenal response.

This seems so much more than that. 

Still, adrenal response, meaning Bruce is acting on pure instinct.

While Clark is thinking, Bruce gains some purchase. He grabs at Clark’s hair. Pulls back enough to deliver a vicious uppercut Clark barely manages to roll with to avoid breaking the man’s hand.

Right. _Fight or flight._

Then Bruce curls a hand at Clark’s nape, pulls him in.

Kisses him. 

_Or fuck?_ Apparently. Clark latches onto this third option.

And lets himself sink into the kiss. Into _Bruce_. Returns each nip and lick and caress just as desperately, never mind that he has none of the excuse the Pit might offer. 

It’s a tangle of tongues, a battle where they lick and suck and bite.

With their bodies entwined, Clark can feel exactly how hard Bruce is. And he is just as ready.

Jesus.

He’s all but ready to rip the clothes off a guy who was dead ten minutes ago.

The thought has Clark rearing back.

“Wait,” he says. “ _Wait_ , Bruce.”

“For what.” The man growls out the words, but they _are_ words. The coherence in them, the intelligence in those eyes despite their hunger, sends sweet, sweet exaltation through Clark’s body and soul.

“Not here.”

“Where.”

Clark closes his eyes for a second, fights for rational thought. “Let me take you home.”

“No.”

His eyes open. “What?”

Bruce’s eyes, which are familiar and yet alien, lacking those crows’ feet Clark had gotten used to watching when Bruce wasn’t looking, are still wide, still starved.

“I’m not…” He grimaces. “Control is… bad.” He draws in a breath in a hiss, lets it out angrily. “Not ready.”

“All right. Where do you want to go?” Clark will take him anywhere he wants to go.

Bruce frowns. His hands are roving Clark’s chest, but Clark isn’t sure he realizes what they’re doing. “Fortress?”

Yes. “Absolutely.”

Bruce wraps his arms around Clark’s neck, steps onto Clark’s feet.

Takes his lips in another kiss.

They’re in the air before Clark even realizes they’ve left the chamber.

He flies them north.


	9. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is screaming, and everything is green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is some, well, maybe not "gentle" but certainly mild smut in this chapter. And in case this is a factor in your continued reading, Clark bottoms.

Someone is screaming, and everything is green.

He’s drowning. He’s burning. He’s trapped.

Everything hurts.

Everything _rages_.

Then he’s free, only to find himself restrained again.

His throat is raw.

Someone is still screaming.

Oh. He's the one screaming.

And someone else is yelling.

Wait. 

If he's screaming…

...Then who is yelling?

“—uce!”

What?

He fights to get free.

His captor is strong. Too strong.

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.”

He struggles against an iron embrace.

He can barely move.

He doesn’t even know his name.

Everything is freezing and burning at once.

All he wants to do is claw and bite and rend.

Hurt whatever, whoever comes close.

But he can’t _move_.

He clenches his teeth against more screaming.

“Shhh. It’s okay, Bruce.”

 _Clark_.

“You’re okay. I’m here.”

It’s _Clark_ holding him.

But.

Who is Clark?

“Shh. I love you.” 

Bruce— _his name is Bruce_ —starts to shake his head.

But he can’t move.

The man—Clark, _Superman_ —holds him too tight.

He’s too strong.

Not human.

A flash. Red eyes, a hand at his throat. Clark?

The man is frowning. Distracted. Bruce reaches up, pulls on his hair. Punches.

The hit doesn’t connect. Or it does. 

What? No impact.

Wrong move.

Super speed.

New plan.

He slides his hand down. Back of the head to the nape of the neck.

Tugs. Breathes.

Starts to bite, but the moment he touches those lips, he’s kissing.

Yes.

Clark freezes. Then melts. Gives.

Yes.

He takes.

It’s not _enough_.

Too soon, Clark pulls back. 

Bruce bites down on a growl. 

“Wait. _Wait_ , Bruce.”

He doesn’t want to wait. 

Why does Clark want to wait?

He can feel his need, hard against his thigh.

“For what.” Now he _does_ growl, impatient. 

Clark’s smile is sweet and full. Brilliant.

Something inside him settles at the sight.

Something else moves. Squeezes. _Yearns_.

“Not here.”

He looks around. It’s dark. Hot. Cave? Maybe. Not his.

“Where.”

“Let me take you home.”

Home? What is home?

 _Where_ is home?

Gotham. Manor. Alfred. DickJasonCassTimDamian. Batman. 

No.

_Clark._

Yes.

There’s something inside him, still. Something raw. Something _wrong_.

He could hurt people. _Wants_ to.

Could hurt his kids. Alfred.

He can’t let that happen.

But.

He can’t hurt Clark.

“No.”

“What?”

Blue eyes. Wide. Concerned.

“I’m not…” 

How to explain? 

“Control is…” Gone. Not entirely. Almost. “Bad.” 

Breathe. In. Out. “Not ready.”

Can’t go home.

Not yet.

His throat closes. 

He wills Clark to understand.

Clark does. “All right.” Pause. “Where do you want to go?”

Bruce frowns. 

Where can they…?

“Fortress?”

Another smile. 

He wants to close his eyes. 

He wants never to close his eyes. 

It blinds him. 

“Absolutely.” _Clark_.

He grabs on.

Kisses that smile.

They fly.

Maybe it’s the flight, or the air cooling his face and extremities, or the arms around him, but he gains a little more control of himself by the time they reach the Fortress. 

It’s not enough—his blood still rages, still sings with a lust for violence he can’t seem to quench—but it’s enough that when Clark puts him down to let them into his stronghold, he can curl his hands into fists instead of turning them into claws. 

Can walk—yes, walk—in on his own power. 

His vision still flashes with green, but the shapes of things don’t morph into monstrosities with every blink.

It’s a bit like breaking a wild horse, except that wildness is within himself, but he wrests enough control over it to dull the screaming in his head to a roar.

At the very least, he can _think_ again.

Clark pulls him close when the door opens, and Bruce fights the urge to hit him.

Okay, he can _mostly_ think again.

The green at the edge of this vision suddenly makes sense as he lets Clark guide him inside.

“Pit.”

Clark looks at him, frowning.

“You put me in a Lazarus Pit.”

The guilt in those eyes, the slump of the shoulders. 

He doesn’t need to hear it confirmed. Clark confesses anyway. “Yes.” 

He closes his eyes, and green explodes across the back of his eyelids. “You—”

He focuses on breathing. On darkening that verdant neon rage. On not letting his nails tear into his hands.

He feels hands cup his face. 

Opens his eyes.

All he can see is blue.

“I did,” Clark confirms. “I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

He can feel his nostrils flaring. 

He struggles not to bare his teeth like a rabid wolf when he opens his mouth to speak.

“Why.”

“Because…” 

The blue clouds over. 

Hesitation. Doubt.

Clark breathes.

Bruce breathes with him.

He can’t help it.

“Because I _love_ you, Bruce.”

His heart, his breath, arrests.

Clark loves him?

Clark.

Loves.

_Him?_

Blue eyes fill.

“I love you, Bruce, and I _killed_ you. I couldn’t live with it. Couldn’t live with myself. Couldn’t live in a world without you in it. Not like that.”

Wait.

“You… killed me?” Bruce tilts his head, frowning. That sharp edge of violence threatens, and he squashes it down. “You didn’t kill me.” His voice, nearly a growl. 

“I… Bruce, I crushed your throat.”

“I remember.” The memory is a viridescent flare in his head. Glowing eyes, that feeling of choking. The desperate scrabbling at the hand at his throat. “Doesn’t mean you killed me.”

“You’re not… mad?”

Not the best word. Mad? He can feel the blood—the _bloodlust_ —surging through his veins. His hands clench at his side so they won’t rend, hit, kill. The green flickers in and out of his vision. He has to exert so much willpower just to stay focused on one thing, instead of snapping at phantoms, hyper reacting to the slightest triggers.

Mad? Yes. Likely.

“Pretty sure I _am_ mad,” he muses.

Those brilliant blue eyes dull, shoulders slump forward. “I knew you would be.”

Not that kind of mad, though.

He hesitates for a moment, but remembers Clark’s bald-faced confession.

He steps forward.

Brings his hands up to cup that perfect face.

Presses a kiss to those perfect lips.

“Clark.” Another kiss. “I’m not angry.” Pause. “Or, not at you.”

He leans his forehead against Clark’s. 

“There’s a… A lot of rage in me right now.” He takes a breath. “But it doesn’t have a target. Or an outlet.” Another breath. “It’s just _there_ , eating at me.” 

Bruce pulls away. “I’ll need to deal with this before… anything. I can’t be a danger to my family. To the team. To you.” Steps back. “You need to lock me up.”

“No.”

Hands at his shoulders keep him immobile. 

“No, Bruce, I won’t do that.”

“Clark?”

Clark’s eyes are steely with determination now. “Let me help you through this, Bruce.”

He growls. “I’m holding onto control by a thread here, Boy Scout.”

Superman just gives him that blinding smile. “God, I missed you calling me that.”

“I need—”

“Me,” Clark interrupts him. “You need _me_.”

He scowls. “No, you don’t understa—”

“No. You listen to me. I talked to Ra’s. He told me to expect an extreme adrenal response. Fight or flight. And that’s fine. You want to run, I’ll pace you. You want to fight, I can take whatever you throw at me. It’s not like you’ve got Kryptonite on you, even if you do seem a little stronger and faster than usual. But I think you’ve got a third option you like better.”

“Clark—”

“Fuck.”

He rears back, shocked by the curse. “W-what?”

Clark smiles. There’s an edge to it. It sends heat stabbing through Bruce’s center. “Your third option: Fuck me.”

Bruce wants to lunge at him. 

He wrests the instinct back ruthlessly with an effort that leaves him gasping. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

A growl—his? Clark’s?—and then he’s yanked forward. He opens his mouth to ask what Clark is doing, only to find Clark’s lips on his own.

Instantly he reacts. Presses closer. Bites. Licks. Invades.

And Clark…

Lets him.

Gives back exactly as much as he takes.

Bruce _wants_.

He wants to climb inside him and strum at his soul.

Wants to burrow into his heart and never emerge.

Wants to lap him up so he groans his name.

Wants to eat at that smile.

Breathe his breath.

He wants…

 _Everything_.

The world blurs away, and suddenly they’re— _oh_. 

They’re in Clark’s bedroom.

With its bigger-than-king-sized bed. 

Bruce had measured it on one of his trips here. Had teased Clark about what he was doing with such a large bed.

He’s not teasing now.

He’s not entirely sure he’s _breathing_ , now.

What he does know: he’s burning from the inside out.

His feelings for this man in his arms are sharp and savage.

They hollow him out then fill him up again.

And the madness of the Lazarus Pit is the least of these.

As before, it’s Clark who pulls back.

As before, he says, “Wait. Bruce, _wait_.”

As before, Bruce doesn’t want to.

“Bruce.” He struggles to stay close, but Clark holds him back with almost casual ease. “Bruce, I need to know you want this, _really_ want this.”

He grabs one of those smooth-as-marble-and-just-as-penetrable hands, guides it downward. “ _Feel_ ,” he growls, pressing against that hand, those fingers. “Feel how much I want this.”

“Jesus, Bruce.” Those fingers stroke him through his clothes, and Bruce cants into them. Clark takes his lips again, and Bruce gives him his tongue. They only untangle to draw breath.

Bruce fumbles at his belt, but Clark stops him.

“Let me,” Superman breathes, and sinks to his knees before him.

There’s a moment when the rage fades away, and the whole of Bruce is washed over by awe at the sight of this man in the full regalia of his homeworld, of _Superman_ , and he’s on his knees staring up at him like _he’s_ the hero here.

Then, blushing, Clark reaches up, undoes Bruce’s belt, the button on his trousers. The zipper. Pushes pants and boxers down.

Finds him with that warm, smooth hand.

Bends his head.

Swallows him down.

That brief suspension of need shatters, and Bruce gasps as desperation spirals up from his center.

All semblance of control is lost.

His hips work almost without his volition. He clutches at Clark’s hair, abrading his hands against the locks just as invulnerable as the rest of Superman.

His body strains for release.

“C-Clark,” he groans, through clenched teeth. “Gonna—”

He tries to tug that head back, regain some measure of restraint, but Clark only eases down that last little bit.

Does something with his lips, his tongue, his _throat_.

And the world explodes.

Clark swallows, milking him before pulling back with a wet sound that keeps Bruce’s insides quivering.

Eventually, Bruce realizes the only thing keeping him upright is the Kryptonian he’s clinging to languidly.

Who’s used his inattention to strip him bare at inhuman speed.

Who’s easing him onto the bed.

Who’s all but cooing at him as he whispers endearments and arranges Bruce’s limbs onto the mattress, then settles in to pat Bruce’s air, kiss his cheeks and earlobes..

Who still looks perfect, too perfect, despite the heavy-lidded eyes of molten blue.

Bruce’s hands trail up that torso, splay across that wide chest, trace that winding emblem.

“Bruce, do you want to—”

“Take it off,” he mutters.

“Bruce—”

“Off.” He’s growling now, and impossibly hard again. Needy. He wraps his legs around Clark’s hips. Lets him feel his desperation. “Now.”

“Okay,” Clark says, and puts that speed to good use, uncinching his cape. Then he eases from between Bruce’s legs so he can strip off his uniform. 

Bruce has one glorious moment to see all that perfect skin revealed to him before the vision blurs before him.

He opens his mouth to demand Clark come back, but just as quickly, he’s there, crawling up Bruce’s body. 

Kissing every inch of skin his lips reach—his calf, the back of his knee, along the inner thigh, up his abs then his chest, the notch at the hollow of his throat, the pulse point at his neck—as he returns to Bruce’s arms.

Where he belongs.

Bruce wraps himself around him and takes his lips.

Tastes himself on Clark’s tongue.

Exalts as Clark groans into his mouth and clutches at him.

It’s a heady feeling, and Bruce feels dizzy— _oh_.

Clark has spun them on the bed, and Bruce suddenly finds himself on top.

“What?” 

A hand slides between them and Bruce has a second to register how _hard_ Clark's cock is before he is stroked to readiness by uncalloused fingers gifted with the ability to vibrate at superspeed.

“I reckon it’d be easier for you if you were in control,” Clark says, his matter-of-fact tone at odds with the blush on his cheeks and the _want_ in his eyes.

“ _What_.”

His hand stops stroking. “Think about it, B. Take a moment.”

He growls, undulating his body against the one beneath him, rutting against Clark until the man shuts his eyes and moans, almost piteously.

“That’s it,” Clark urges. “I’m all yours.” 

He tilts his hips just so, and Bruce slips between his cheeks. 

Feels Clark around him, slick and hot and ready. 

He has a second to register that Clark has prepped himself for him.

The breath strangles in his throat.

It takes a herculean effort, but he stills his body even as Clark thrusts up, rubbing up against him. 

_God_.

“Clark—”

“Take what you need, Bruce.”

He shakes his head, as much in denial as to clear it. “I could hurt you.”

Those hands come up to cup his cheeks. 

Blue eyes stare up into his own.

Clark is _ridiculously_ beautiful.

“You won’t hurt me, B. You _can’t_. Not here, not now. Not by doing anything but pulling away.”

Still, he hesitates. 

But Clark takes his hand, guides it between their bodies. “Feel how much I want this.” 

He’s always been good at echoing Bruce’s words back at him.

So Bruce wraps his fingers around that glorious length and claims those lips again.

Surrenders to the fire surging his veins.

With the bright light singing through his insides, he guides himself in slowly.

Savors the feel of heat, of desire, of _Clark_ closing in around him.

Swallows Clark’s gasp as he joins their bodies together inch by inch until he bottoms out.

Strains against the part of him that wants to hammer into the willing body beneath him so he can take a moment to glory.

But Clark urges him on. Begs him.

“B, _please_. God. _Move_.”

He could no more disobey than he could stop his heart from beating. 

Pounding. 

Throbbing.

So he _moves_.

Bruce grabs Clark's legs and hitches them up over his shoulders before pulling his cock almost out only to then snap his hips forward. He pounds in and out of Clark's ass. It’s fast, and hard, and desperate.

Driven by his madness, by Clark’s grief, by this feeling of what they might have lost.

Life. 

Love. 

Lust.

All these things unmake him.

They leave him hollowed out, eviscerated, only to have him meet Clark’s eyes, taste Clark’s lips, join their hands.

And he is made whole again.

Clark’s hands soothe and burn.

The babbled words as they soar together leave him starved and satiated.

The Lazarus Pit ignites hellfires within him.

But Clark pushes him into paradise.

And the roaring in Bruce’s blood turns to song.

Later, much later, Bruce comes back to himself. To the cool silence of the Fortress. To the gentle stroking along his back. He lifts up enough to put his hands on Clark’s chest. Rests his chin on them. Marvels at the man who’s just given himself to him, body and soul.

It takes him two tries before he manages to speak. “So.”

A worried face relaxes into a smile. “So.”

“You love me.” 

It’s not a question. Not after everything.

“Hmm. Yes, I recall saying something to that effect earlier.” 

“Hnn.”

“In case you missed it: I love you.”

“Hnn.”

Clark adjusts him in his arms, and Bruce realizes they’re not actually in bed anymore, but floating above it. “This is the part where you tell me you love me too.”

“Hnn.”

A chuckle. Bruce does _not_ think about the way the sound smooths the ragged edges within him.

“That’s okay. I already know you love me.”

Bruce grumbles, shifts into a more comfortable position. 

It seems Clark was right in assuming sex and its natural release of oxytocin and serotonin would dampen the raging of the Pit, at least temporarily. 

But not entirely. Bruce can still feel that _hunger_ stirring within. So while an overdose on adrenaline would certainly explain a lot about the aftereffects of the Lazarus Pit, he suspects there’s something more to it.

But now is not the time to hypothesize. Or give in to the bloodlust that burns his veins. Ruthlessly, he suppresses the demon that seems to have married itself to his being.

It will keep.

For a little while.

He’ll worry about it later.

“What now?”

Clark frowns. “What?”

“What now?”

“Well,” Clark says thoughtfully, “if you’re up for another round, so am I.”

 _Christ_. “I don’t—”

Clark’s grin cannot be described as anything other than shiteating. “Be careful what you say. Given our current positions, I can tell if you’re lying.”

Bruce kisses that grin right off him.

And that puts an end to the talking for a while.

They go another three rounds before the bloodlust—or just _lust_ , now—exhausts itself.

By the third, Clark is topping. As much a test of Bruce’s control as a concession to his bone-deep tiredness.

Finally, finally, they sleep.

Only to be awakened rudely by the Fortress computer’s alarms blaring.

Using super speed, Clark dons his uniform and dashes into the main control area. Bruce sits up, assesses the bedroom around him. He looks at his clothes in distaste, deciding he’ll have to burn them at the first opportunity. 

There was a _corpse_ in those clothes. He shudders just the tiniest bit. No matter that that corpse was his own.

Bruce spots a royal blue robe that’s seen better days draped over the back of a chair. He strides over to it, dons it. 

Inhales.

It smells of Clark.

Desire spikes.

But the alarms are still blaring, and he forces his body to calm. Then he follows Clark—Superman—to the control room. 

“ _—Ivy alerted us when her flowers have been uprooted, and you can bet she is pissed._ ” Is that Dick? “ _Tim tracked the League down, and we stormed their fortress on Infinity Island. So imagine our surprise when we find out they don’t have him. That_ you _put him in that Lazarus Pit._ ”

“Dick—” There’s a desperate kind of misery in Clark’s voice. The primal animal that lives inside of Bruce has its hackles rising protectively at the sound of his mate’s vulnerability.

 _“I can’t_ believe _you, Clark! You of all people should know he never would have wanted—”_ Bruce steps forward, into the room. The six faces on the screen gape at him.

“ _F-Father?_ ”

He moves to stand beside Clark. Places a hand on that slumped shoulder. Offers comfort.

“Damian.” The Pit’s madness is subsumed by the warmth—joy, it’s _joy_ —that spreads through his chest at the sight of his children.

“ _Are you… yourself?_ ” This from Tim.

He tilts his head. “For the moment.”

Four of his five children burst into excited, or agitated, chatter at that moment. On the Fortress’s excellent sound system, this is a cacophony. For the first time since he and Clark made love, a faint green tints his vision.

“Enough!” he growls.

Everyone freezes. Clark included.

“As you can see, I’ve been revived in the Pit. The aftereffects are—” _Overwhelming. Terrifying._ Clark turns to look at him. Takes his hand. _Not insurmountable_. “Manageable. In time.”

“ _Are you coming home, B?_ ” Dick.

 _Home_. Gotham. His kids. Clark.

“Yes.” But, he qualifies, “Eventually.”

“He’s still suffering some of the effects of the Lazarus Pit,” Clark offers.

“ _We can see that, alien._ ” 

“Damian!” It’s a roar. He snaps his jaw shut. Grimaces. “Don’t speak to Clark that way,” he manages after a tense, silent moment.

“ _Yes, Father._ ”

“ _Master Bruce._ ” Alfred. “ _It is good to see you._ ”

“And you, Alfred. It’s good to see you all.” His voice wobbles. God, how is that sufficient? Good to see them? It’s—everything. It’s everything. “I—” The green deepens. He clenches his teeth, focuses on breathing. “I’m afraid I can’t come home just yet,” he finally manages.

“ _Take all the time you need, Old Man._ ”

Gratitude fills him. Love floods him. Flushes away the green.

“Th-thanks, Jaylad.”

“ _You’d better keep us updated, Superman._ ” Dick.

“ _You’d better take care of him._ ” Tim.

“I will,” Clark promises both of them. All of them.

How does he deserve him? How does he deserve any of them?

He feels liquefied and turned to stone, all at once.

“ _Wait_.” Cass. He meets her eyes. She smiles. Like Clark’s, it’s made of sunshine. Or she is. “ _We are… happy. Love you._ ”

His whole body, his whole _being_ , shivers in relief. Gratefulness. _Love_. 

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

She nods. Smiles again.

Smiles at Clark too.

Waves at them both before the screen goes dark.

“I get you’re not supposed to have favorites, but there’s no way it isn’t Cass,” Clark observes.

Bruce snorts through his tears.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until just this moment.

Clark wipes his tears away. 

He wipes at Clark’s eyes in turn.

Clark kisses him.

“I… I love you,” he manages to say.

Against those lips, the truth is easier to speak than he thought it would be. It’s a truth that’s been all his own for a very long time. It’s strange to let it out in the light.

“Hnn.” Clark doesn’t quite manage the grunt before he’s chuckling, though there’s still the tiniest hitch of a sob in his voice.

“Let’s go back to bed.”

“Okay.”

A blur, and they’re there.

“Show off.”

“Well,” Clark says, cupping his face and angling him so they’re eye to eye, body to body. “I did promise to take care of you.”

“Hnn.”

And Clark does.

Afterward, the demon inside Bruce sleeps. They speak their secrets and souls and plans and promises into the cool air of the Fortress. There will be much to sort through, later. For now, they lie in each other’s arms, having shared warmth, traded hearts. For now, they are alive and whole and together.

 _Enough_ , Bruce thinks as he follows Clark into slumber. 

It’s more than enough.

He drops into the dark with a smile on his face.

It’s almost as sweet as Clark’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's a wrap! Thank you very, very much to everyone who read each chapter as I posted them, and those who commented! I had a lot of insecurities about posting this fic cause all this hurt and angst isn't normally what I write. I promise, I usually try to keep things fluffy and funny! But some people have reached out to me and told me that this fic touched them, and all I want to do is say that I'm honored to have been given that chance.
> 
> Enormous thanks to my beta readers, [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdt) and [serephent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent), who also served as wonderful cheer readers (I just learned this term) and saved me from getting my head too bloody from slamming it on my desk while writing this. 
> 
> They've also encouraged me to smut things up and write a separate porny one-shot of this chapter because, upon review (and review and review and _review_ —I went around in circles on this one so many times), I decided not to smut things up too much in favor of focusing on the tone I wanted to achieve in this chapter. I'll admit I'm already feeling the siren call of other fics, but if this is something people feel the need to read, I'm grateful enough to everyone who put up with this whole fic that I'd have a crack at it, even though serious porn is even less my forte than angst. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you, thank you, and thank you for reading to the end of this. I hope the happy ending helped with the hurt of the beginning and middle.


End file.
